


Lucky

by endofnight



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Hospital, M/M, Recovery, super vague mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:18:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endofnight/pseuds/endofnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Éponine? What is it?” He kept his voice firm, even though his heart had crawled out of his mouth and was lurching across the floor. “What’s the matter?”</p><p>He heard the words:</p><p>“Grantaire.”</p><p>“Overdose.”</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky

It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

***

When Enjolras got the first phone call from an unknown number, a call that consisted of just muffled noises and slamming doors, he ignored it.

When it happened again, a few minutes later, he ignored the screeching tires and shouts.

The third time, he didn’t even bother answering when he connected the call, but he had to admit the screaming sirens were a worrisome sound.

He ignored it the fourth time.

***

Some time later, his phone rang again. He debated ignoring it, more than tired of the wrong (probably drunk) numbers, but something made him look. Perhaps it was that Grantaire was due back soon, perhaps it was simple curiosity.

He picked up his phone, stern features lighting up when he saw Éponine’s smiling face flashing back at him. He answered cheerfully, fully expecting her to tell him Grantaire was on his way home. It wasn’t uncommon that she called to warn him.

Her sobs stopped his breath.

“Éponine? What is it?” He kept his voice firm, even though his heart had crawled out of his mouth and was lurching across the floor. “What’s the matter?”

He heard the words:

“Grantaire.”

“Overdose.”

“I’m sorry.”

***

When they finally let him in, when his subtle barbs had given way to outright threats, when Grantaire was no longer described in words like “kindhearted” and “disheveled” and “spontaneous,” when he was described as “stable” and “lucky” and “brain-damaged,” when the doctors had warned him that Grantaire was still asleep, that they didn’t know ( _then why are you a doctor?! he screamed, but only inside his head_ ) when he would wake up, when the doctors had sufficiently frightened Enjolras into what their future held, when they finally let him into the dim, cool room, the room that would be Grantaire’s home for so much longer than he realized at that moment, he realized that his heart _hadn’t_ broken.

Because if it had, he wouldn’t feel the searing pain in his chest, he wouldn’t feel the blood pooling at his feet, he wouldn’t feel the rubber band tightening around his chest as he looked at his husband on the bed.

Grantaire, stocky and strong by nature and by practice, was small and thin and pale, his skin holding even more pallor than the hospital-issue sheets.

They’d had to pump his stomach— _gastric lavage_ , Joly had said, seriously—to try and stem the worst of it; they’d had to use the paddles to restart his heart not once, but twice. He’d stopped breathing, couldn’t breathe on his own again yet ( _how do you forget?_ ) and, once the contents of his stomach had been emptied, the tube had been shoved into his throat to refill the contents of his lungs.

 _Lucky_ , Joly had agreed. They’d almost had to perform a tracheotomy, Joly had said. Another hospital word that Enjolras had learned so far tonight. He had no idea how many more were coming.

***

The fear, the fear that made his brain feel like it was on fire, kept the anger back.

Grantaire couldn’t talk yet. He was still intubated, still mostly out of it, but he’d woken (Thank God, _said Bossuet. Enjolras wanted to know what god would let this happen to begin with_ ) and when he’d seen Enjolras’s burning blue eyes watching his face, the recognition that had flashed across his face was almost enough to make Enjolras cry. He would never tell anyone that had been his biggest fear.

Now most days were spent with his right hand in Grantaire’s, his left holding the books he read to him. They’d gone through libraries full of books in only a week and Grantaire seemed as if he understood what Enjolras was reading, as if he understood the questions Enjolras asked (carefully phrased into yes or no questions) about the material, as if he was one of Enjolras’s students.

“Memory issues,” Grantaire’s official doctor had said. “On his most recent CT scan, we noticed some brain damage in the area of the brain that handles long term memory.”

Combeferre, the gentle guide, had pulled the doctor into the hall to question him further.

As soon as Grantaire indicated he was ready, Enjolras brought in book after book. Anything Grantaire requested. Crosswords and word searches, sudokus and memory games. Enjolras fell in love with him and his easy laugh again over games of Go Fish and Crazy 8s and Old Maid, learned again that Monopoly and chess were just games. Anything to help Grantaire’s memory and to distract him from his plight.

Enjolras was determined. It may take longer for Grantaire to commit things to memory, he may have to remind him of events and places and people more often, but he was damned if Grantaire would suffer. Grantaire was intelligent, whip smart, and Enjolras was going to do everything in his power to make sure he stayed that way.

Enjolras forgot his anger.

***

Grantaire had to be taught to walk again.

Enjolras was tired.

***

Three months to the day from when Grantaire had been rushed to the hospital as he lay dying, Enjolras walked into his room with autumn nipping at his heels.

The room was quiet, the bed neatly made, the lights turned off.

The quiet, dim room was empty.

His heart leapt into his throat again, in a way it hadn’t in so many days, and he spun around, surging across the hall to the nurses’ station.

“Grantaire. In room 221. Where is he?” He swallowed back the bitter panic in his throat. “What happened?”

“Patient 221…” It took the matronly looking woman far too long to find the information Enjolras needed. He imagined her death in a thousand ways in the seconds that spanned between them.

“Oh! Oh, yes.” She smiled. “He’s been moved to a regular room. He’s in 425 now.”

Enjolras didn’t bother to thank her.

The bed was still empty when he walked into the room two floors up. His heart did nothing because it had never left his throat.

This time:

“Enjolras. You found me.” He turned and felt the relief pour from his fingertips and his toes. Grantaire was snuggled into the chair in the corner, pillows tucked around him to help him sit up, in a new pair of sweatpants and one of Enjolras’s old hoodies. Grantaire’s own clothes were too big for him now.

“You moved,” he said dumbly, coming into the room and setting his bag aside. As was habit, he moved across the room and leaned down to kiss Grantaire lightly. His husband’s lips were slightly chapped, soft, and warm, as they had always been.

“Mm.” He paused. It was natural now, Grantaire was a pauser now. He took a second to form his words now. “I passed my test this morning. I can walk 15 meters on my own.”

Enjolras’s smile was so broad it was painful. “Really? That’s amazing! I didn’t know that was today.” Grantaire looked pleased at the praise. Enjolras pulled the plastic chair away from the small table in the corner and sat close to Grantaire, knees touching, as Grantaire nodded at him.

“It wasn’t supposed to be, but I felt ready. I want to go home.”

“I know you do, baby, but you can’t yet. Soon.” His heart chipped a bit ( _it was so sore these days_ ) at the resigned looked on Grantaire’s face.

“I know. Here.” Grantaire handed him the book that had been resting in his lap.

“What’s this?”

“I want to read this one next.” Enjolras took the book from him with a small frown. The chip in his heart grew bigger.

“We read this a few weeks ago. Do you remember?” The frown on his husband’s face was immediate.

“No.” He let out a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, I just read the description and I thought it sounded…”

“No, baby.” Enjolras covered his hand when he tried to tug the book back. “Of course we can read it again. It’s worth a second read, anyway.”

Grantaire didn’t look up at him, but his eyes flicked up. Enjolras felt the sear on his skin. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. You don’t ever have to ask me that.”

Keeping his right hand in Grantaire’s hands, he leaned back in his chair and began to read.

***

“Remind me,” he could hear Grantaire saying in the other room. “Tell me why this one is important.”

The sweet, high peal of laughter was immediate.

“I already told you, Daddy! Madame Finster ( _Finnister, Enjolras thought, but still, he smiled_ ) wants us to bring in our favorite toys.”

“And this one is your favorite? Why is it your favorite?” Grantaire’s voice was gentle, but Enjolras could hear the slight spark of worry in his tone.

“It was the first one.”

“The first one. The first toy we gave you?”

The giggle again.

“Yes, Daddy! You’re silly.”  Her voice grew muffled and Enjolras could picture Grantaire hugging her close to his chest.

***

“Lucky,” Grantaire was saying.

Enjolras looked up from the pile of papers on his lap with a distracted, “Hm?”

“We’re lucky,” he repeated. He sat at the other end of the couch and stretched his legs out. The hairs at his temples and the whiskers around his chin were salted now, his liquid gray eyes framed by smiles. He tucked his toes under Enjolras’s thigh, careful not to disturb the homework he was grading.

“I agree,” Enjolras said, capping his red pen and pulling off his glasses. “But is there a particular reason for you to say so?”

“Max and Jeanne. They have good heads on their shoulders. Like you.” Enjolras snorted.

“Hardly me. I’m hot-headed and mercurial, remember? Thankfully, they have your temperament. Where are they off to?”

“Max is taking her dress shopping for the winter formal. She was invited by an upperclassman.” He laughed at the immediate frown on Enjolras’s face. “You know you can trust her, honey.”

“I know. I do.”

Grantaire was quiet for a moment, looking at the book in his hands. He glanced up.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Grantaire.”

He needed to finish his papers, sorely needed to get this grading done, he was already behind, but he knew what Grantaire was going to ask.

“I thought we could read this book.” It was the same book they’d reread the day of Grantaire’s walking test.

“Again?” He knew Grantaire got it by the twinkle in his eye. He held the book out to Enjolras.

“It’s been 18 years.”

Enjolras took his hand in his right hand and opened the book. He began to read.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading.


End file.
